Home sweet homeless

Let's get it over with, folks. I live in Bethnal Green. And yes, I live in an ex-council flat. Yes, it's a bit rough, but thankfully more in a "blooming neighbour keeps smoking cigarettes outside my flat door" than "blooming stabbed teenagers keep bleeding over my welcome mat" way.

Today, for example, the council is removing asbestos (which I didn't know we had) from the ceilings in the communal areas. I imagine this may be a problem when my one-legged, sweary downstairs neighbour sets his flat on fire for the third time this year.

But, you know, the security is pretty good. We have an entry phone and a secure entrance, meaning you need a special key fob to get in and out of the property unless someone who lives there buzzes you in.

Last night I went out for dinner with some ex-colleagues in a very nice but slightly Hooray-Henry restaurant near Bank. I got home just before 9.30 and let myself through the secure entrance. I could smell alcohol very strongly, but Friday is recycling day (see, the area IS middle class!), so I assumed a neighbour had been a bit over-enthusiastic with their empties. Then I tripped over a tramp.

Let me say that again for you. I. Tripped. Over. A. Tramp.

Lying at the bottom of the stairs, snoring vociferously, was a tramp. He had two empty cans of Fosters next to him, and three more in plastic rings next to him. He didn't seem to gain any type of consciousness as I bumped into him, so I stepped over him gingerly. I was briefly worried he might look up my skirt, but this didn't seem to be high on his priority list. At a guess, his priorities were a) sleeping and b) drinking a bit more. It turned out later that priority c) was smoking his head off, as there were
at least ten cigarette butts in the hall when I left for work this morning.

I let myself into my flat. "There is a tramp asleep at the bottom of the stairs," I said to TheBloke (TM). "Do you think I should call the police?"

"A tramp?" asked TheBloke (TM).

"Yes," I said. Because I am nothing if not truthful. "A tramp is asleep. At the bottom of our stairs."

"Why would you call the police?" asked TheBloke (TM).

"I don't know," I said. "Perhaps they have some special unit for tramp disposal or redeployment."

"Someone rang the entryphone earlier," said TheBloke (TM). "But when I asked who was there, no-one answered so I didn't buzz them in."

"Well, someone did," I ascertained. "Because this block of flats now has its very own tramp."

I considered calling the local police, but it was a pretty cold night, and there probably isn't a Tramp Redeployment Centre in Bethnal Green, so chances are he'd have just been turfed out onto the street. And he wasn't really doing any harm. He didn't even look up my skirt whilst I was going up the stairs. (Though I was annoyed about the smoking. And a big dirty tramp patch at the bottom of the stairs this morning.)

I got up in the night to do a wee. (I hope you appreciate the inclusion of detail) I could smell cigarette smoke wafting up the stairs. I checked briefly the hall wasn't on fire (it wouldn't be the first time, and I love any excuse to call the fire brigade) and then went back to bed. I didn't fancy tramp confrontation dressed only in my pyjamas at 4 a.m.

Thinking about it, perhaps the area is a bit less middle-class than I'd originally thought. Hmm. Still, do you have your own tramp? No? Then I have more tramps than you and am therefore winning.